Isab. Too late? why, no; I, that do speak a word, Not the king's crown, nor the deputed sword, Isab. I would to heaven I had your potency, Ang. Your brother is a forfeit of the law, And you but waste your words. Isab. Alas! alas! Why all the souls that were were forfeit once; Ang. Be you content, fair maid; It is the law, not I, condemns your brother: It should be thus with him ;-he must die to-morrow. Isab. To-morrow? Oh, that's sudden! Spare him, spare him! He's not prepared for death! Even for our kitchens We kill the fowl of season: shall we serve heaven With less respect than we do minister To our gross selves! Good, good, my lord, bethink you: Who is it that hath died for this offence? There's many have committed it. Ang. The law hath not been dead, though it hath slept; Those many had not dared to do that evil, If the first man that did the edict infringe Isab. Yet show some pity! Ang. I show it most of all when I show justice; For then I pity those I do not know, Which a dismissed offence would after gall; And do him right, that, answering one foul wrong, Lives not to act another. Be satisfied: Your brother dies to-morrow; be content. Isub. So you must be the first that gives this sentence, And he, that suffers! Oh, it is excellent To have a giant's strength; but it is tyrannous To use it like a giant.-Could great men thunder As Jove himself does, Jove would ne'er be quiet, Would use his heaven for thunder; nothing but thunder. Thou rather, with thy sharp and sulphurous bolt Split'st the unwedgeable and gnarled oak, Than the soft myrtle:-But man, proud man. Most ignorant of what he's most assured,! Plays such fantastic tricks before high heaven We cannot weigh our brother with ourself: Great men may jest with saints: 'tis wit in them, That in the captain's but a choleric word, Which in the soldier is flat blasphemy. Ang.Why do you put these sayings upon me? Isab. Because authority, though it err like others, Hath yet a kind of medicine in itself. Go to your bosom: Knock there, and ask your heart what it doth know That's like my brother's fault; if it confess A natural guiltiness, such as is his, Let it not sound a thought upon your tongue Against my brother's life. Ang. [Aside.] She speaks, and 'tis Such sense, my sense breeds with it. [To her.] Fare you well. Isab. Gentle, my lord, turn back. Ang. I will bethink me.-Come again to-morrow. Isab. Hark how I'll bribe you! Good, my lord, turn back. Ang. How! bribe me? Isab. Ay, with such gifts that heaven shall share with you. Not with fond shekels of the tested gold, Or stones, whose rates are either rich or poor, Ang. Well; come to me To-morrow. Isab. Heaven keep your honor safe! TROUBLE YOUR HEAD WITH YOUR OWN AFFAIRS. ELIZA COOK. You all know the burden that hangs to my song, For Apollo has now set up national schools. Oh! mine is a theme you can chant when you may, Fit for every age and for every day; And if rich folks say, "Poor folks, don't give yourselves airs!" Oh! how hard it appears to leave others alone, Though our own walls are formed of most delicate glass! He'd find "motley," no doubt, in what he himself wears, Our acquaintance stand up with reproving advice, The "Browns" spend the bettermost part of the day Mr. Figgins, the grocer, with sapient frown, He discusses the church, constitution, and state, Till his creditors also get up a debate; And a plum of rich color is lost to his heirs Through not "troubling his head with his own affairs." Let a symptom of wooing and wedding ce found, The fortune, the beauty, the means, and the ends, She must be a flirt, if she is not a fright: Oh, how pleasant 'twould be if the meddlesome bears We are busy in helping the far-away slave; We must cherish the Pole, for he's foreign and brave; To the east and the west we send mercy and gold; We abuse without limit the heretic one While he bends to the image, or kneels to the sun; From the Brahmin's white bull to the Catholic's beads; Would be-" Trouble your head with your own affairs." TRIUMPHS OF THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE. J. GILBOURNE LYONS. Now gather all our Saxon bards-let harps and hearts be strung, To celebrate the triumphs of our own good Saxon tongue! For stronger far than hosts that march with battle-flags unfurled, It goes with freedom, thought, and truth to rouse and rule the world. Stout Albion hears its household lays on every surf-worn shore, And Scotland hears its echoing far as Orkney's breakers roar; It climbs New England's rocky steeps as victor mounts a throne; Niagara knows and greets the voice, still mightier than its own; It spreads where winter piles deep snows on bleak Canadian plains; And where, on Essequibo's banks, eternal summer reigns. It tracks the loud, swift Oregon, through sunset valleys rolled, And soars where California brooks wash down their sands of gold. It kindles realms so far apart that while its praise you sing, These may be clad with autumn's fruits, and those with flowers of spring. It quickens lands whose meteor lights flame in an Arctic sky, And lands for which the southern cross hangs orbit fires on high. It goes with all that prophets told and righteous kings de sired; With all that great apostles taught and glorious Greeks ad mired; With Shakspeare's deep and wondrous verse, and Milton's lofty mind: With Alfred's laws and Newton's lore, to cheer and bless mankind. Mark, as it spreads, how deserts bloom, and error flees away, As vanishes the mist of night before the star of day! Take heed, then, heirs of Saxon fame-take heed, nor once disgrace, With recreant pen or spoiling sword, our noble tongue and race! Go forth, and jointly speed the time, by good men prayed for long, When Christian states, grown just and wise, will scorn revenge and wrong; When earth's oppressed and savage tribes shall cease to pine or roam, All taught to prize these English words-FAITH, FREEDOM, HEAVEN, and HOME. "THE MORNING ARGUS" OBITUARY DEPARTMENT. MAX ADELER. A rather unusual sensation has been excited in the village by The Morning Argus within a day or two; and while most of the readers of that wonderful sheet have thus been supplied with amusement, the soul of the editor has been filled with gloom and wrath and despair. Colonel Bangs recently determined to engage an assistant to take the place made vacant by the retirement of the eminent art-critic, Mr. Murphy, and he found in one of the lower counties of the State a person who appeared to him to be suitable. The name of the new |